


Not Envy

by Jane Average (janeaverage)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: bbtp_challenge, F/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, POV Outsider, Post - Half-Blood Prince, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-01
Updated: 2007-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-29 16:35:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janeaverage/pseuds/Jane%20Average
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Petunia <i>knows</i> that ungrateful brat’s been in Marge’s bedroom… but she's not expecting what she finds there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Envy

**Author's Note:**

> For the first [Bring Back the Porn Challenge](http://asylums.insanejournal.com/bbtp_challenge/), way back in 2007, I went through my plot bunny graveyard and dusted off some smut scenes. This was originally written as part of a magical marriage bond fic which never went anywhere, but all you really need to know is it’s the summer after HBP and any OOCness is a direct result of that bond ;). An enormous thank-you to [Hogwarts Honey](http://hogwartshoney.livejournal.com/) for glancing over this for me at the very last minute and making me feel a thousand percent better about posting.
> 
> Originally posted on [LJ](http://janeaverage.livejournal.com/4468.html) and [IJ](http://janeaverage.insanejournal.com/403.html), if you'd prefer to read there.

Petunia Dursley hummed happily to herself as she carried a load of laundry upstairs. Turning to go into the master bedroom, she paused, noticing out of the corner of her eye that the door to the guest bedroom wasn’t shut properly. _Must be that ungrateful brat,_ she thought bitterly, _always snooping around where he’s not wanted._ She peered in the room to see if anything was out of place…

And squeaked in shock, unwittingly allowing her carefully folded sheets to tumble to the floor.

One of the – naked! – bodies on the bed started at the sound, blearily uncurling itself from – Lord, it was her _nephew,_ naked as a jaybird and—

Petunia tore her eyes away from his half-aroused… organ and found herself looking down the business end of a wand.

“You will not wake Harry,” the woman stated threateningly. And it was a _woman,_ about her own age, she estimated.

“I most certainly will!” she shouted, surprised but undaunted when it came out as a whisper. “It’s bad enough we have to put up with that… that _abnormality!_ I _will not tolerate_ these… sinful activities in my own house, particularly not here in Marge’s bedroom! I’ll have to send that quilt out to be cleaned!”

Without hesitation, the woman turned a forgotten sheet into a chair, pushed her down and bound her to it with some strange magical ropes. Another flick of the wand stopped her struggling, freezing her into place, and she had a moment of panic when she couldn’t breathe, only to realise she didn’t _need_ to.

“Yes, that’s right,” the woman purred. “Nosy, nasty busybody, aren’t you? Well, I’ll give you something to spy on, then, shall I?” And, after a few moments adjusting the chair’s position, the woman moved back towards the bed, hips swaying suggestively, and crawled up her nephew’s body. Petunia suddenly realised she could do nothing but stare straight ahead when she attempted to close her eyes or at least avert her gaze from the shameful display. She had no alternative but to stare unceasingly at the naked pair, the woman’s legs spread at such an angle as to… well, display far more of her female parts than Petunia had ever seen before. She supposed she should be grateful that it wasn’t Dudley who had walked in – she didn’t want him corrupted by whatever strange appetites the boy had picked up at that freak school.

The woman waved her wand about, muttering, a few more times before placing it on the bedside table and lowering her mouth to the boy’s. He jerked awake, reaching blindly for the table, but the woman whispered something Petunia couldn’t hear and he relaxed.

“Hello, Bella,” he said with tenderness and contentment in his voice.

“Morning, lover,” she purred back, trailing kisses over the boy’s skin. “How did you sleep?”

Instead of answering the question, he replied teasingly, “I think I may have to keep you,” and twined his arms around her, pulling her down against him.

She laughed, teasingly and a bit evilly, and bent her head to his, and for several minutes the only thing Petunia could hear was the sound of wet mouths sliding together and pulling reluctantly apart for the space of a panting breath. This tameness was not to last, of course – no, Petunia didn’t have that sort of luck – and soon enough the woman chuckled again, deep in her throat, and curled her hips towards the boy. The groan he gave in response would have been enough to set Petunia blushing if she’d been able to do so.

“Close your eyes,” the woman purred, and Petunia wished she could obey. Instead, she watched in horror as the woman slithered down to kneel between the boy’s splayed legs, shifting just to one side so that her body blocked none of what she was doing. Mentally, Petunia shuddered with revulsion as the woman placed the flat of her tongue against his—against _him,_ and licked slowly up the length.

The boy flung one arm over his eyes and groaned, his other hand clutching at the rumpled duvet. Half of Petunia’s mind was worrying about the delicate lace he was sure to rip off _any minute,_ while the rest of her was busy wanting to cringe away from the spectacle the woman was making, using her mouth and lips and tongue and teeth on parts they weren’t supposed to be _anywhere near,_ and _then,_ to Petunia’s very unpleasant surprise, the woman’s hand appeared between her legs, two fingers sliding inside her.

This, she was sure, was what a dirty video looked like: all slick wetness and writhing bodies and uninhibited _noise_. At least they weren’t _talking_ , though of course the woman, mouth full and nose buried against the boy's belly, wouldn't've been very articulate. She made a pleased moan, though, every time she drew a new sound from the boy, matching the bobbing of her head to the thrusting of her fingers. Only freaks, Petunia was certain, could enjoy such a demeaning act, and the woman made it abundantly clear just how much she enjoyed it, from the obvious relish with which she laved the boy with her tongue, to the way she squirmed and rocked her hips, to the shining _wetness_ that covered her fingers and dripped down her hand and made her curls glisten in the light.

As if hearing Petunia's thoughts, the woman tugged roughly on those curls, moaning, her whole body bucking in response, and she took the boy in her mouth again. And Petunia could actually _hear_ her sucking, harsh slurping noises that made her want to shiver in distaste.

_”Stop,_ Bella,” he said warningly, and then, “Bella!” again, more sharply. When she made no response other than to hum happily, muffled by his flesh, his hand snapped out and fisted in her hair. He arched up, forcing her head down and grinding her against him. Petunia was horrified, and as the seconds ticked by, she wondered how the woman could breathe, if there was some possibility the boy might actually _suffocate_ one of those freaks _right here in front of her_ – but when the woman whimpered, he jerked her roughly up and said, “Come here.”

She took her time crawling up his body, stopping to drag her tongue up his stomach and dip it into his navel, detouring to make him hiss and buck up at her by biting at his hipbone, wasting no opportunity to press her skin against his or slide her body wantonly against him. The boy stared hungrily down at her, seeming not to notice Petunia trapped a few feet off to the side. She wanted so badly to blink – for as long as it took the woman to get bored of tormenting her, preferably, but even a second or two would be welcome – or simply to let her gaze slide out of focus (as she so often did when Lavinia Haversham brought out her holiday pictures). Just a short respite from having to stare fixedly as the woman rubbed herself over the boy, from having to see the way the long, wet stripe she left behind on his skin glistened in the sun from the window – that was, for the moment, all she asked for.

Instead, she remained staring as the woman straddled him, rubbing slowly against him as she bent down, hiding the kisses Petunia could hear behind the curtain of her hair. A moment of wriggling and writhing, and the boy slid into her – _finally,_ surely that meant they were nearly finished? – and she started moving. It was slow and languid and sort of hypnotic, the way her back curved to let him slide out a bit before she curled her hips towards him and took him back into her, slowly and evenly, like a metronome on half time. His hands raked down her back, settling just below her waist, until he drew one of them back suddenly and landed it with a sharp _crack_ right on her rear. Petunia would have jumped – screamed, maybe – but the woman just giggled. It was bizarre.

That seemed to be a hint, though, and the woman pulled away, bracing herself on the boy's shoulders, and began to move more quickly. The boy's hands trailed over her body – her back, her belly, her thighs, even dipping between her legs – until she made a needy sort of noise. With a wicked-looking grin, he slid them up her front, cupping her chest lightly, teasing her with his thumbs. Her lower lip slid into a pout, and she whimpered something that might have been _please_. He took this as encouragement to knead her flesh harshly, pulling and tugging and twisting it in his hands so roughly that Petunia felt the urge to cross her arms over her own chest, but to her surprise the woman threw back her head and moaned, arching towards the boy as if she wanted more.

He seemed to have no problems providing that as he slid, with disturbing wet sounds, into the woman again and again.

Suddenly she arched her back and stilled, keening his name, and as he grasped her hips and pulled her roughly down, his face twisted as if in pain and he grunted, shuddering. The tension Petunia had barely noticed gathering suddenly snapped, and she felt… _something_ wash over her, like the feeling she'd always got when the boy had been angry, but not quite. A moment later the woman took a deep breath and collapsed, letting the boy’s arms slide around her as she buried her face against his neck. She shifted, and squeezed, and the boy slid out of her with a sharp intake of breath. Petunia tried very hard not to notice the shiny wetness of them, and the way a thin white trickle escaped from the woman, running down to soak the curls between her legs.

She had only just had time to thank the heavens that it was _over_ when he growled and rolled the woman beneath him.

Although this view was somewhat less pornographic, it was somehow more horrifying to watch. Petunia was savvy enough to realize that the first round had been orchestrated at least partially for her benefit. This round, however, was all Harry, who remained completely ignorant of her presence and _still_ had the woman pinned and… _writhing_ beneath him in a disgracefully wanton way. She did not, thankfully, have to watch him disappearing into her this time; indeed, she could see little more than the long line of his back above frantically pistoning hips, and the woman’s arms and legs that clutched convulsively around him. But this time, the boy _wouldn’t shut UP._ Words she would have washed his mouth out for, foul and filthy, dropped from his lips alongside far-too-vivid assertions of lust and want and… _love,_ even, as if freaks like them could understand such a thing, and the woman responded to all of them like a caress.

That familiar twisting in her stomach, she reminded herself for the thousandth time since she’d turned eleven, was _disgust_ – not envy.


End file.
